


My Cross To Bear

by rpmrangers



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie) - Freeform, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, i am right i will take NO criticism on that fact, idk if this is shitty but they we're trying, strange has ptsd from the time loop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-23 16:45:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18553747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rpmrangers/pseuds/rpmrangers
Summary: "Some things are broken beyond repairThis is my cross to bearMy own meaningless catastropheI never had the time to prepare"He’d counted every time he died, stored it in his head, told himself just one more time, just once more. He’d counted each time he lost hope, each time he almost gave up, every time his fighting was useless, every time his death was inevitable.The only thing worse than dying time and time again, was none of them being final.





	My Cross To Bear

**Author's Note:**

> POSSIBLE TRIGGER WARNING: this is heavily about ptsd & the emotional effects of the time loop & endgame and i talk about stephen having nightmares and he also has a panic attack so
> 
> yet again i am projecting my own personal experience onto a character, so whilst this wont be representative of everyone with ptsd its based on my personal experience

Stephen never told anyone how long he was stuck in the time loop for, how many times he died, painfully, and alone. Wong had tried to pry the information from him many times, albeit tactfully, though he made no progress. He didn’t mean to pry, or invades Stephens privacy, he was simply worried for him, not able to fully understand the impact the loops could have had on his health. 

He knew about the nightmares, it was impossible to ignore the shouts late at night. At first he believed it best to leave it alone, after all it wasn’t Stephens fault the walls of the Sanctum were far too thin for any kind of privacy, but once the nightmares began to manifest in rather unusual “sleep magic”, he had no choice but to intervene.

They didn’t talk about his nightmares the next morning, they never did. Occasionally Wong would be awoken by the soft sound of whimpers, and his books floating in the air, and would find Stephen shaking in his room. He’d awaken him from his fits, remind him he was safe and alive and okay, until his breathing slowed back down. After he was calm the wall would go back up, Stephens face, briefly filled with so much emotion, would go back to perceived apathy, he’d dismiss Wong, and crawl back into his bed without a word. He gave up with trying to bring them up, knew after months of attempts to get him to talk about what happened, that there was no use, all it did was make things far more tense than they needed to be.

After the snap, after Stephen died yet again, trapped within a realm so far away from home, yet so similar to the dark dimension, it suddenly became far worse. Stephen had survived, as had Wong, and Christine, and all of the students, everyone had come back, saved by the mighty Avengers, but dying wasn’t something you could ever forget.

The first few weeks preceding the snaps reversal, Stephen preoccupied himself with assisting the Avengers and co. in finding, and putting away the rest of “Thanos’ Children”, that were attempting to continue in their masters footsteps. He let himself get lost in the fight, let his arrogance and sarcasm shield his pain, tried his best to pretend everything was okay again, but it wasn’t, it never had been.

After the fight seemed to be over, after every lead had been run dry, after Thanos seemed to be a thing of the past, that’s when it all fell apart.

Many assumed the battle was the problem, that it tore you apart, needing all your self control and courage to get through it, but it was the aftermath that was the worse, the adrenaline rush wearing off, being faced with the reality of the situation. Hunting down the remnants of Thanos’ crew was a distraction, a misguided hope that all he needed was to fully win the fight, but battle never solved anything.

The last battle had been quite easy, what was left of his allies knew what had happened to those around them, knew their destruction or incarceration was inevitable. He should have been happy, proud, he should have felt safer, should have been joining in the relieved sighs and “post battle high fives” with the rest of his comrades, but all that filled him was dread, anxiety, so much fear.

He barely managed to portal back to the Sanctum before the sobs ripped themselves from his chest, before all the air was stolen from his lungs. He collapsed onto his bed, letting himself feel everything he’d been putting off for weeks, months, since even before the last time he’d died. He thought of Dormammu, of all the times he’d killed him, of all the pain and fear he endured, about how even though he knew it was futile, he’d still continued to fight, praying every time that this time would be the last, almost feeling like it never would be. He thought about how it had ended, the normalcy he’d portrayed upon returning, he thought of Mordo’s words.

_“You still think there will be no consequences, Strange? No price to pay?"_

He’d already paid the price, in full, had already been ripped apart and pieced back together only to be ripped apart again, over and over and over. Had his sanity not been enough? Had it not paid the price, had his soul not tipped natures scales back to balance?

No he hadn’t paid the price, he was still paying. Everything was still being taken from him, he was still being ripped apart again and again, he was still dying every single time he closed his eyes. He thought he’d been done, that all the deaths were over, that eventually his time would come, that never again would he fade away into nothing, not dead, but not alive, and still it happened again. Had he not given enough?

He’d counted every time he died, stored it in his head, told himself just one more time, just once more. He’d counted each time he lost hope, each time he almost gave up, every time his fighting was useless, every time his death was inevitable.

1867 times he’d died.

The only thing worse than dying time and time again, was none of them being final.


End file.
